I felt no anger, only a profound, hollow exhaustion.

We sold our suburban house three weeks after the sentencing.

The moving truck smelled of cardboard, packing tape, and old dust.

I kept only the clothes, the books, and Claire’s childhood drawings.

Everything else, including the furniture Richard had bought us, went to an estate auction.

We rented a small, three-bedroom house with a wrap-around porch just five miles from Rose’s home.

The kitchen had yellow linoleum floors and a window that looked out over a wild blackberry patch.

Rose came over almost every evening after her shift at the local diner ended.

She taught Claire how to make her grandmother’s peach cobbler.

They stood side by side at the counter, their movements matching in a way that made my chest ache with a mixture of grief and gratitude.

“Like this, Claire,” Rose said, showing her how to crimp the edges of the pie crust with her thumb.

“I’m trying,” Claire laughed, her fingers covered in white flour.

I watched them from the kitchen table, sorting through our new mail.